Page 30 of Not Catching Love

“Yep.” This time, I tug his sleeve and don’t let go until he takes a reluctant step into the room.

“I can’t paint.”

“Damn, you’ll really be a fish out of water amongst these masterpieces.” I wave my hand toward where Kevin has somehow managed to turn his dog into a turd this week.

Derek stamps down his smile. “I need to set up.”

“We’ll wrap up five minutes early, and I’ll come and help you. It’s just shifting a few tables.”

“You’ll help me move tables?”

The skepticism in his tone makes me narrow my eyes at him. “I’m a lot stronger than I look.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Then stay,” I say, not above injecting some pleading into my voice. “I haven’t seen you all week. If you don’t stay, I might start to miss you, and then my brain will play tricks on me so I can see you at the pharmacy instead.”

It’s not until the humor drains from Derek’s face that I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. Joking about my mental health is something that comes naturally to me, so half of the time, I don’t even know what fucked-up things I’m saying.

The way Derek immediately closes off makes it clear I’ve crossed lines with him though. He pulls gently from my grip and steps back. “I’ll decide whether or not to join your class on my own. You don’t need to guilt me into it.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves me with a big, fat lump of anxious energy burning through my gut.

“Struck out, did you?” Kevin grunts.

“Go back to your scat play,” I snap before returning to the front of the room and ignoring them for the rest of the class.

I don’t knowwhy I’m here again. I barely say a word to Mary as I collect my badge and storm into the room to set up for this week’s class. All the easels, all the paints, all the supplies are things I bring with me. Things I pay for. I’m still not sure why I’m wasting my money.

I’ve just set the last art pad in place when I turn to plant myself in a chair as I wait for the residents. My eyes brush over the seat by the door, and I jolt at finding someone sitting there.

“Derek?”

He doesn’t completely meet my eye as he picks up a paintbrush. “Got here early enough this week.”

Considering I assumed he’d avoid me like his life depended on it, I’m not prepared for this. Seeing him. Talking.

“You … did.” I creep a little closer. After last week, I know that I owe him an apology, but it refuses to come out. Even my inside voice is stubborn. “I thought you hated me.”

He manages a small smile. “I told you the other night that I didn’t.”

“That wasn’t on purpose.” The whole way to the pharmacy, that terrifying dread had only been disrupted by the fear that Derek would think I was faking it. That he’d think I was there to make him feel bad and follow through on the joke I’d made. Sure, I’m petty enough to do that, but I didn’t.

“I know.” He runs his thumb over the bristles of the paintbrush and nods at the paper. “So what do I do?”

“You paint.”

That makes him laugh, and pride ripples through my chest. “Unlike you, most people aren’t a natural at this. What do I paint? What colors do I use? How … how do I make it actually look like a thing?”

“Just … pick something. Picture it, how it moves, how the shape of it flows. Think of how the light captures it and keep building. Keep layering.”

“I can’t work out whether it’s a sign of optimism that youthink anyone is capable of it or if you devalue yourself and what you dothatmuch.”

I don’t want to think about that question. “Pick an animal.”

“A … bird.”

“Okay, what sort of bird? A swan? An eagle? A red-footed booby?”

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